Trains
by Gwen's Blue Box
Summary: No-one would have assumed how strongly it affects Sherlock to leave John behind after the Fall, least of all Sherlock himself. But it does, and there is nothing he can do about it. Except to try to go on, more or less successfully. / Sort of character study-ish, one-shot. Post-fall, pre-reunion.


As to how this happened... I recently spent eight hours on a train, four hours to get where I wanted to go, and four more hours to get back. Well, as you might imagine, it was rather boring, and so I happened to have an idea... concerning trains, yes, of course, what else?

A one-shot, as it turned out to be (and of course no characters mentioned or appearing belong to me...).

Concerning angst: Not particularly angsty, it's just post-fall and pre-reunion, so we've got Sherlock without John - which is always a tiny bit angsty, in my opinion. And sad.

So then. Enough now. Enjoy.

* * *

**Trains**

* * *

Trains.

He hates trains.

Trains are... Trains resemble the flow of life as most people view it: fast, whirling, passing too fast and nonetheless never getting anywhere.

A quick glance at his deranged mobile phone tells him that another six hour, five minute and thirty-one second ride lies ahead of him.

A train ride that will take him to the continent, again, far away from-

From what he is not supposed to think about, from what would clearly distract him from his task. And it is a task that needs to be finished, a case, in some way, that needs to be solved, under all circumstances.

"Coffee? Tea?" a young woman – clearly member of the train staff – asks.

He simply stares out of the window, watching the landscape pass by, and does not answer, not even look at her. Her voice alone tells him so many things, too many - older sister, used to commanding, no loving parents, rather stern voice -, things he doesn't want to know and he doesn't need to know. Not now, on his own, when his brain is not obeying his commands to shut out anything that's not important.

John has always been able...

No. Too late. The thought has already been produced. The thought of John, his loyal flatmate, formerly, and even more loyal blogger. Formerly. Because there's nothing to blog about anymore. Only loneliness.

Loneliness. Maybe it's the fever that makes his mind so uncooperative. Disobedient. Pondering things he doesn't want to think about.

Things like sentiment.

It has to be the fever, he decides. Why else would he happen to think about John now, why else would he allow his thoughts to wander aimlessly?

John would know. Of course he would know what was wrong with him. Physically and... He hesitates to even think the word. Emotionally.

Stupid, Sherlock, so stupid. Thoughts of a common mind and, even more important, thoughts likely to distract you. Focus. You need to focus.

It have been one and a half years. One and a half years since he has successfully outwitted the world's only Consulting Criminal, one and a half years since he has fooled everyone, even hurt those people he - yes, he has learned to admit it to himself in those past months - cared about. One and a half years on his own, attempting to achieve the impossible. To hunt down Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's second-in-command, the one Moriarty had trained on John, the sniper. Impossible because nobody has as many henchmen, hiding places and fake identities as Moran, having been Moriarty's most loyal follower, his right hand, figuratively speaking. The one who has done the dirty work most of the time, and the one who has dared to threaten John. Twice.

And Sherlock is alone, alone against Moran. Back to working alone, as he has done for so many years before... Before John Watson. And it is disturbing how much he craves for his presence now.

Without John, without his stimulating and interrupting and admiring and looking confused, Sherlock's mind doesn't work as well as it is supposed to be, providing him with unnecessary information about perfectly ordinary people, distracting him from focusing on what's really important. It reminds him of his early uni days when he has spent hours with simply watching people, spurting out random facts about them, embarrassing everyone. Only that now he can't afford such a waste of time, not when he has his task to do, to concentrate on. But it's difficult, so difficult, without John.

He has tried cocaine. To sharpen his mind, to block out all those silly thoughts - even and maybe especially those telling him constantly: you've hurt John, you've hurt him, he's grieving - that were illogical anyway - since John, having been a soldier, would move on, would forget him, would find someone else (why then only is it that he can't move on, he of all people?) -, cocaine to drown those silly bouts of sentiment.

He has relapsed, yes, after years of being clean. Only that is hasn't worked, the drug in his system freeing him from unwanted deductions, yes, but also causing him to see John in his shabby motel room, John, John, John everywhere. And it has felt real, absolutely real.

But of course John has been gone as soon as Sherlock has come to again, has never been there at all.

Not good.

Withdrawing this time has been hard, forcing him to remain in the same motel for two days, retching, vomiting, seeing feverish hallucinations of John again, John laughing at him, telling him with a not-John-like grin on his face: "You think I miss you? You really think that? Jesus, you've got no idea how glad I am that I've finally got the flat on my own, without some daft and insensitive and... weird flatmate. Freak."

Never again, Sherlock has decided as soon as he has come to again on the floor of the bathroom, the air stale and reeking of vomit. He wants John, yes, but his John, not this hallucination.

But since that moment, there has been doubt in his mind, doubt if maybe the fake John is right. And if John really is glad.

He's passing a forest now, he registers dazedly, and once again letting his brain do what it wants.

It has in fact become even more difficult, John always being present in his mind, to remain focused after his cocaine experiment. The doubt doesn't stop nagging.

He has called John once, using a phone box in some run down village near the Scottish border, giving in to sentiment and to the urge to find out if John has forgotten him already.

Hearing John's voice on the phone, his mind screaming deductions such as _tired, not sleeping well, hoarse, not talking much, still owns his old phone - not thinking ahead -_, has been like a slap in the face.

"Hello?" John angrily demands a second time. "Who is this?"

A pause in which Sherlock doesn't dare to breathe has followed.

"I swear, if this is one of you bloody journalists again, or you, Mycroft, trying to kidnap me again to prove how much you care..."

Sherlock has ended the call, standing frozen for minutes.

He doesn't call John again, after that. It has been stupid, anyway. Sentiment. Stupid.

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat and winces as the movement jars the stab wound in his side. Got stabbed, yes, during a meeting with some dubious drug dealer claiming to know where Moran is. And who has intended to mug and kill him. How he has got away he doesn't remember too clearly, but then, it's not really important. He hasn't got to know anything useful anyway.

It's not his first injury, and it's been days since then, only hurting when he moves. The dizziness from the original blood loss has subsided, too, finally. And the fever... Well, the fever is probably just an unfortunate side effect of the pain medication, not an infection. Because if it is - his second in one and a half years - he will need help, either medical or Mycroft's who has taken care of the first one.

He has learned to lock John's room in his mind, to be able to focus better, even without his blogger. It has to be the fever that slowly loosens the lock on the door now, it has to be.

With a flinch, Sherlock snaps back to reality, still on the train, still on his own.

It is hot in here - maybe the air conditioning is failing -, and he is tired. And the monotonous flying by of the fields and trees and houses outside does nothing to ease the nausea that has been following him stubbornly for the past few hours. Not good, John's voice echoes in his head.

Shut up, Sherlock thinks, closes his eyes and presses his forehead against the cool window. You're not here, so shut up.

As he slowly drifts towards oblivion, the train lulling him to sleep, he hopes that he will meet John in his dreams.

* * *

Thank you for reading.


End file.
